


such a sky and such a sun

by constantblur



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Illustrated, M/M, Magical Realism, Urban Fantasy, victor is a lonely fae just looking for a place to belong, who brews magic beer, yuri is a fae witch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantblur/pseuds/constantblur
Summary: "You could belong here."Amazing how such simple words said so simply can rip into Victor's heart and leave him feeling like he's been crumbled down to his knees.





	such a sky and such a sun

**Author's Note:**

> written for the LLYBB bing challenge!! we had ~2 weeks to write a fic using any of four prompts/genres. my team gave me this awesome premise based on tap, fantasy, and romance. (okay i probably could have shoehorned molasses in here too but oh well.) i had so much fun writing this; i hope it's a fun read!
> 
> thank you to my beta [bren](https://twitter.com/murmuredlullaby) for zooming in on my heck-ups and making this fic look significantly less like i wrote it at 3am (which is when most of it was written), and to my merciful friend ilana for being the voice of reason when i started overthinking things and made my brain melt.
> 
> and can i get a round of askdjhGHDFSDFLSHJ for [dyeingdoll's](https://dyeingdoll.tumblr.com/) [art](https://dyeingdoll.tumblr.com/post/173574525837/with-the-delay-but-art-for-the-bing-3-is-here) for this fic?? amazing, beautiful, brilliant, clever, stunning, I Cried Real Tears
> 
> title from the e.e. cummings poem "sweet spring is your" bc when in doubt and too tired to make up a title of your own e.e. cummings always comes through for u

“You’re as subtle as a technicolor zebra,” Sara says dryly.

Yuri snaps back into focus, though it’s somewhat less because of her words and more because of the finger she pokes into his kidney. “Ow,” he complains. “What?”

“You can go talk to him,” Sara says with raised eyebrows. “You are the owner of this establishment.”

 _Talk to who?_ “What?”

Phichit snickers as he passes by with a platter of his infamous mystery-flavored chicken wings. “That’s our Yuri,” he says. “Permanent resident of the sovereign state of Denial, where the national language is What.”

The only thing Yuri can think of in response to that is _what_ , but voicing it would apparently be proving a point he is fairly certain he doesn’t want to make. He settles for a scowl instead.

“If you really wanted to hide it, I’m afraid that ship sailed at least five minutes ago,” Sara says as she fills up a pint glass from the tap carved into a tanuki. That’s one of the ones that just changed over; it used to be rhythm, leading to many impressive sambas and tangos and jitterbugs on the dance floor over the past few weeks, but now it’s the ability to mimic various dragon calls. The taproom of The Keep has claimed some taps of its own, changing the brews as it pleases and generally doing its level best to keep Yuri from ever truly knowing peace. Sara hands off the pint glass and turns to Yuri with a smirk. “You were staring at him without blinking for nearly twice that long.”

Yuri’s about to say, _Staring at_ who, but it comes back to him then. A man came in about that long ago, looking extremely troubled about something but waving Sara away when she’d tried to offer him a drink. Yuri got stuck on that expression at first—he’s a bartender, all right, being concerned about gloomy patrons is practically embedded into his DNA by now—and then he’d admittedly just enjoyed looking at the man for a while, all pale skin and high cheekbones and striking silver hair. Eventually, though, Yuri’s gaze unfocused and turned inward as a stray thought about needing to restock his supply of asphodel came and lead him away, and apparently, he’s been zoned out ever since.

“Um,” says Yuri.

“Just go talk to him,” Sara says. “He didn’t want a drink when I asked him before, but he’s still sitting at the bar so I’m sure he wants something now.”

Yuri nods and heads over towards the silver-haired man; there’s no point in correcting Sara’s misconception about why because all it would lead to is a lot of exasperated teasing about spacing out during one of their busiest nights, _again, get it together, Yuri_. All that really matters is that there’s a customer at the bar who hasn’t had a drink yet and looks like he could use someone to talk to.

“Hello,” Yuri says, offering a smile when the man looks up at him. “Can I get you anything?”

The man points at something behind Yuri’s head. “Which specialty brews have you got on tap?”

Yuri knows what he’s pointing at. Sara had spent hours with her colored chalks making the sign, after which she’d prohibited him from erasing the art with an added, “I’ll change it soon, Yuri, just leave it until I have time to redo it.” The chalkboard has toted _ASK US ABOUT THE SPECIALTY BREWS WE HAVE ON TAP_ for almost three months now.

Yuri obligingly cracks a smile like he hasn’t heard the same quip for the past three months. “This one,” Yuri says, pointing to the first tap, carved into a pixie, “will have Musetta's Waltz playing in your head until you fall asleep. This one lets you hear what the ants are saying. This one will make every word from your mouth so captivating that anyone you wish to speak to will be desperate to hear you speak. This one will drop you into one of your happiest memories, almost like you’re reliving it—”

“Yes, that one, please,” the man interrupts.

Yuri nods and begins filling up a snifter. That’s a popular one, which, Yuri supposes, is why it’s almost always there. The others will probably be gone by the end of the week, changed into drafts that make everything taste like oranges, or keep making you think you’ve seen a leprechaun in the corner of your eye. Yuri isn’t sure where the taproom picked up its sense of humor, but he’s long since learned to just let it be.

Some time after Yuri’s made his way down the bar and back to serve other patrons, he glances up to see the silver-haired man still seated in the same spot—and crying. Fat, glistening tears roll down his cheeks in an unbroken stream, the man making no move to wipe them away or staunch the flow from his unblinking eyes.

Yuri steps right past a woman in a top hat calling for a pitcher of Synesthesia.

“Are you all right?” he asks gently, unsure if the man even sees him with those wide, wet eyes.

“Yes,” the man responds thickly.

Yuri frowns at the obvious lie. “Can I get you a pint of Euphoria?”

“No,” the man says. “Another of the same.”

 _But what if that one makes you cry too_ , Yuri thinks nonsensically. It’s not as if he’s never seen someone cry after drinking that particular brew, though they never look quite like this. This man looks more like he’s seen a worst fear than a favorite memory—and he wants another one? But Yuri doesn’t voice any of that, just pours out another snifter and hands it to the man. Along with a box of tissues.

This repeats several more times until something in Yuri cracks. He brings the man a glass of Euphoria without asking; he can’t bear to hear the man demand in that hoarse, broken voice yet another snifter full of what should make him happy but only seems to bring him pain.

Yuri makes another pass down the bar, topping off the few people left now that it’s nearing last call. When he eventually finds himself in front of the silver-haired man again, he’s beaming.

Yuri can’t tell if the sparkles in his eyes seem so bright because his eyes are still wet, but, well. They’re pretty eyes.

“Hi,” the man says, the word bursting out with an enthusiasm that makes Yuri think of a dog that will sit with a wagging tail until you look it in the eye, and then it bursts forth just the same.

“Hi,” Yuri says back. “How are you doing?”

“Incredible,” the man responds with a laugh. “This draft is—wow. God, thank you.”

“No problem,” Yuri says. “Can I get you anything else? We’re at last call.”

The man taps a finger to his lips. “I came here for a tree,” he says.

 _Ah_ , Yuri thinks.

It’s why this taproom exists, really. The tree in the garden out back, down a hallway disguised with a glamour so no humans can accidentally stumble down it. They’re not allowed to know the tree is there. They’ve cut down too many of them already. Hawthorn trees used to be as easily found as your local Starbucks, and now the fae have had to get serious (and creative) about protecting the trees that are the source of their magic on earth—and their way back home.

“You want to go to Magh Meall?” Yuri asks quietly.

“I thought I did,” the man says. He waggles his fingers at Yuri, grinning broadly. “But your magic potion is making it hard to think much at all.”

Yuri glances around the bar. It’s quiet enough that Sara can deal with the stragglers. Yuri fills a glass with water and slides it to the man, then leans against the bar. “Why were you thinking of going?”

The man gulps down half the glass and gives a satisfied sigh like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. “It’s a long story,” he says, sounding amused. He aims a smile up at Yuri, shrugging in a _what can you do_ sort of way. “I like it here too much. We’re not supposed to like it here that much, are we? I think we’re supposed to always be pining, you know, wanting to go back to the ‘plain of delights’”—he snickers when he uses the air quotes—“but I never wanted to go back. I don’t want to go back. But I don’t think I can stay here.”

Yuri knows it’s not very nice to pry into strangers’ lives—especially after he’s dosed them with Euphoria without them explicitly asking for it—but honestly, after a speech like that, how is he supposed to not be interested in this story? “And why can’t you stay here?”

The man crooks his finger at Yuri, and Yuri is admittedly helpless at the sight of the mischief and mirth in those eyes and leans in close without hesitation. “I’m a little bit famous,” the man stage-whispers. “I’ve been on television. I have _fans_. I think I have a website or twelve dedicated to me.” He puts a hand over his heart, looking exceedingly fond. “They are such darlings.”

It’s a delicate line to walk here in the human world. Fae are magical beings, and they’re as prone to making magic as humans are prone to sneeze. It’s natural instinct, not something they can help, though such unconsciously made magic goes largely unnoticed by humans. Which is lucky, because humans absolutely flip their shit when confronted with magic. So the fae know: if you’re going to live among humans, you’re going to have to go largely unnoticed by humans.

And not have, say, a website or twelve dedicated to you.

“Ah,” Yuri says, trying to ignore the way his stomach drops to his kneecaps. “That’s . . . “ He was going to say _unfortunate_ , but that doesn’t seem to be how the man thinks of it.

“Complicated,” the man chirps instead. “Had to drop off the radar from that life, figured the best way to do that is, well, drop off the human radar entirely. But,” he spreads his arms out wide, smile beaming from his face like a floodlight, “I _like_ it here.”

Yuri drops his chin into his hand, frowning down at the bar top. He understands the man completely. Magh Meall can be a nice reprieve from the human world, but it gets dull very fast. The human world can be so confusing and intense and devastating sometimes, but at least here, life really feels like life. Magh Meall has all the stimulation of a coma.

Yuri comes to a decision pretty easily. “You could stay here for a while,” he offers the man. “Until you decide what you really want to do.”

It’s another reason this taproom exists. Well, not the actual taproom itself, but the entire establishment of The Keep. The Keep protects and hides the hawthorn while providing fae—and whichever humans have enough innate magic in them to be able to stumble upon it—with a brief respite here in the taproom. But the upper floors are for fae that need more of an escape, need time away from the confusing and intense and devastating human world without wanting to escape it altogether. Furnished apartments fill the upper floors that Yuri happily loans out like hotel rooms; the uppermost floor is where he and his staff live.

The man looks delighted by the offer. “Thank you,” he enthuses. “Yes, that would be amazing, thank you so much—ah, what’s your name?”

“Yuri,” he says, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you—”

“Victor,” the man says, grasping Yuri’s hand. “I’m Victor.”

 

 

Victor wakes up in a bed he doesn’t recognize in a room he’s sure he’s never been in before, and for a minute, he thinks, _They could have at least made an effort to give me a place I actually like before expecting me to exile myself here_. The room—and the rest of the apartment outside it, Victor discovers when he can drag himself up from the overlarge but admittedly comfortable bed—is all creams and browns with watercolor paintings hung on the few patches of wall that aren’t windows. It’s very nice and all, but it’s just not . . . Victor.

And then Victor looks out one of the windows and sees the cars rumbling down the street outside and remembers: He didn’t actually go to Magh Meall last night. This isn’t the Otherworld. He’s still in the human world, in—it comes back to him in a rush—in an apartment above the bar, given to him by The Keep’s—very, very good-looking—bartender.

Victor washes up quickly, and is grateful to find the dresser and closet filled with clothes that are—mostly—to his taste, pulling on a clean shirt and pants as they subtly adjust to fit his frame. After hesitating for a long minute, Victor leaves the apartment and heads back down to the taproom, where he’s relieved to see the bartender from last night, along with what he guesses is the rest of the staff of The Keep.

“Good morning,” one of them happily trills from behind the bar, where he’s dishing out scrambled eggs and sausages for everyone. “Breakfast?”

“Um,” says Victor. “Sure, yes, please.”

“I’m Phichit,” the man introduces himself as he loads up a plate for Victor. “You’re Victor, right? Yuri told me we had a new guest.”

Victor glances at the bartender—Yuri?—who hasn’t looked up from his coffee mug yet. “Yes,” he says.

“Sit, sit,” Phichit says, waving Victor to a barstool. “Yuri’s not gonna be ready for conversation until he finishes at least one more of those.”

“Thank you,” Victor says, on autopilot as he sits and accepts the plate sliding towards him. He doesn’t really feel awake yet, or sure of why he’s here, or what he’s supposed to do now that he is.

“No problem,” says Phichit. “So how long do you think you’ll be here for?”

Victor’s fork almost misses the sausage link he was aiming for. “Um,” he says. “Not sure.”

“Oh, hey,” Phichit says, “I didn’t mean it that way, there’s no maximum or minimum limit here. I just—I like to know what people like to eat? When we have guests I just want to make sure their stay here is good, and, you know, good food goes a long way. So if you’re staying more than just the one night, I’ll make you anything you want. Just have to ask.”

“Oh,” Victor blinks. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course,” Phichit says. “Okay, well, I’ll let you finish your breakfast in peace.” He smiles wryly; Victor gets the sense that Phichit is fully aware Victor is just not able to keep up with him in this moment. “Nice to meet you, Victor.”

“You too,” Victor says, and digs into his scrambled eggs as Phichit moves down the bar to get someone some orange juice.

When the plate’s been cleared and Victor’s been staring for an indeterminate amount of time at the colored sign he’d first noticed last night, someone slides into the seat beside Victor. “Did you sleep well?” Yuri asks.

“I did,” Victor says. “Thank you.” And then, more reluctantly than he expected, Victor says, “And thank you for letting me stay here last night, it was very kind of you, truly, but—I can’t impose on your hospitality any longer.”

“Oh,” Yuri says. “You’ve made up your mind then?”

Victor hasn’t, but he can’t admit to that out loud.

He hesitates over what to say for too long. “You’re not imposing,” Yuri says. “Those rooms are for guests, and there’s plenty more of those. Rooms and guests, I mean. So one more guest staying in one of many rooms isn’t an imposition.” When Victor still remains silent, Yuri quietly adds, “You don’t want to go. Don’t force yourself to do something that makes you miserable just because you think it’s what you should do. Just stay here, at least until you decide what you really want to do. Please, Victor.”

Victor isn’t sure why Yuri seems to care so much, or why that thought pleases him so much. It makes giving in to his longing to stay in the human world feel easier, but still. “It doesn’t seem right to take up space here when I know I should just go,” Victor says. “Why put off the inevitable, right?”

“It’s not inevitable,” Yuri says vehemently, which startles Victor. “No one’s forcing you to go, and if you don’t want to go, then don’t. You have a choice in this.”

Funny how easily Victor wants to cave to a stranger with pretty brown eyes saying _Don’t go_. Alarming, too. A small part of Victor—the smallest, stubbornest, most annoying part—tries to dig in its heels. “I don’t really belong here,” Victor says, even though he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to keep arguing, doesn’t want to disappoint or anger this kind stranger. Doesn’t want to say no to him. “Not that I think I belong in Magh Meall either, but at least I’ll . . . you know. Be among my own kind there. Maybe it’ll be easier to not belong there.”

“You’re among your own kind right now,” Yuri says. “You could belong here.”

Amazing how such simple words said so simply can rip into Victor’s heart and leave him feeling like he’s been crumbled down to his knees.

Victor can’t speak, and maybe Yuri senses that because he launches into speech so quickly his words almost stumble over each other. “You could work here, then you’re definitely not imposing or just taking up space. You don’t have to stay here forever, of course, just until you—you sort things out. You don’t have to decide anything right now, but in the meantime, it’s good to have some purpose, something to focus on, I think. And we could use the help! I mean, well, I don’t think you’d want to be any sort of housekeeper or anything like that—” Victor shakes his head, and Yuri grins briefly at that “—I don’t suppose you can sing or, or dance or something like that?” Victor shakes his head again. “Right, well, being the live entertainment is out. I don’t think I can even suggest helping Phichit in the kitchens in good conscience because frankly I still have nightmares about the one time I tried to help him. Um.”

Yuri glances quickly at Victor out of the corner of his eye, looks forward again, and gives an almost imperceptible sigh. “Maybe you could . . . be my apprentice? If brewing potions sounds at all appealing to you. We could start simple, with the basic mood-altering brews—and honestly, I usually need help brewing those, it’s hard to go it alone with most of those—”

“Yes,” Victor cuts in abruptly. “Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

Yuri turns to look Victor in the eye. “Really?”

“Yes,” Victor repeats. He offers up the smile that’s been wanting to break out since Yuri first offered him a place to belong. “Please let me be your apprentice.”

Yuri returns the smile. “Okay.”

 

 

The first lesson is, Yuri woefully admits, something of a disaster.

“This is the easiest brew to make,” Yuri says as he leads Victor down the stone steps to the cellar, where all the brewing—both beer and potion—occurs. With a gesture of his hand, one of the large silver tanks of beer lifts off the ground and follows Yuri down the length of the room, at the end of which is a door Yuri waves Victor through before following him in.

“Which one are we making?” Victor asks as he looks around the room, eyes widening happily as he takes in the rows and rows of shelves crammed full of ingredients, the tables scattered with instruments, and the terribly clichéd but appropriately witchy black cauldron, big as a car and sitting above a fire pit already crackling with orange flames.

“Serenity,” Yuri says, and with another gesture, the beer tank tips over and pours its contents into the cauldron. “I usually brew it by myself, so I figured this is a good place to start for you to be able to practice brewing on your own. Most other mood-altering potions are hard to do alone—I usually need Phichit to sit in with me.” He crooks a rueful smile at Victor. “It’s hard to get euphoric by yourself.”

Victor brightens. “Oh, that’s fascinating,” he says. “I had no idea the brewer’s emotions were a factor in the brewing. So if you have to be euphoric while making Euphoria, I assume Serenity means we need to be . . . “ Victor puts a hand over his heart, closing his eyes, and adopting a small, gentle smile, “ . . . serene,” he finishes in an exaggeratedly slow, soothing tone.

Yuri grins. “You catch on quick.” He starts removing colored glass bottles of all shapes and sizes from the shelves and carrying them to one of the emptier tables. “It’s good to have an official assistant now,” he says. “Phichit’s usually happy to help out, but he can get pretty busy too. It’s better to not have to bother him.”

“What, no one else on your staff is willing to come have a laugh with their boss?” Victor says teasingly as he approaches the table.

Inexplicably, Yuri feels his face flush. “Ah, no, that’s not exactly it,” he says, and suddenly regrets bringing this up. He hopes Victor doesn’t ask what, exactly, it is.

“Well then, what, exactly, is it?” Victor asks.

The flush deepens. Yuri hadn’t really let himself confront the thought when he’d first offered to make Victor his apprentice, though it had been there and it had been a strange thought to have. Now he’s being forced to confront it, and it’s every bit as terrifying and confusing and incomprehensible as he’d known it would be. “Um,” he squeaks out.

“Yuri?” Victor says, sounding curious and concerned. He tilts his head to the side and Yuri caves.

“Um, well,” he stammers, reluctant to put any of this into words, “this—creating magic like this—it’s kind of . . . intimate? You have to be, uh, pretty open with, with your emotions and your thoughts and stuff and, well, I don’t really, uh, feel comfortable doing that with most people. Phichit’s been my best friend for, for decades, so it’s not so bad with him.”

Victor makes a little hum of understanding. But then he goes on to say, “Are you comfortable doing this with me?”

Yuri lets out a long sigh. It’s the obvious question for Victor to ask. Yuri had known he’d ask it. Why is a near-stranger being given the same level of trust as a best friend? “I don’t know,” Yuri says quietly. “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. This will probably be awkward for both of us, at least until we get to know each other.”

Victor leans his elbow on the table, propping his head up on an open palm as he gazes curiously up at Yuri. “Why did you offer me the position?” His eyes narrow slightly. “Did you feel obligated to, just to convince me to stay?”

“No!” Yuri says hurriedly. “No, that’s not why, I promise.” Yuri sucks in a breath, turning away from Victor as he rubs nervously at the back of his neck. “I just—it felt right? Normally, I’d probably obsess over a decision like that for . . . well, a long time, but. As soon as I had the thought, I didn’t feel like I had to think about it anymore.”

Yuri is fairly certain that that didn’t make nearly as much sense out loud as it did in his head, but Victor nods, smiling brightly.

 _You feel safe_ , Yuri almost says, but he forces the nonsensical words back down his throat.

“Right!” Victor says, standing straight up and clapping his hands together. “Let’s get down to business then, shall we? What’s first?”

“Right,” Yuri echoes. “Let’s start with getting your emotions under control. If you’d like, we can meditate, or do some breathing exercises, or—”

“No, no,” Victor says, waving his hand, “no need for that. I’m perfectly calm. What’s the first ingredient in the potion? Three feathers of a swan? Essence of chamomile? The finely ground up horn of a unicorn?”

“First,” Yuri says, opening a large chest on the table, “we need the stones. If you put these in the cauldron first, they’ll help focus your intent and amplify the effect. Essentially, they’re conductors for the emotion you’re trying to imbue the potion with.” He picks out a stone from the collection inside the chest, holding it up in his palm. “Rose quartz. Promotes self-love, harmony, and feelings of inner peace.” Another stone gets plucked and held up in his other hand. “Blue lace agate. Relieves stress, calms racing thoughts. Good for inspiring feelings of composure, stability, and security.”

Victor takes them from Yuri’s hands, raising them to his face for closer inspection. “Oh, they’re so pretty. This one looks like ocean waves. Oh! Is that why it’s considered so calming? Ocean waves are calming, right? So do we just toss them in or—"

Yuri takes the stones back from Victor, who immediately turns to inspect the other contents of the chest. “Maybe this won’t be so easy after all,” Yuri says mournfully.

It isn’t.

Victor clearly has no setting for “calm” and instead takes every minute of silence as insufferable boredom, at which point he drills Yuri with questions about what this jar is filled with, or what that weird-looking gadget does, or what else can he do to help. Telling him that being quiet would help never, ever works. He always jumps right back into trying to sate his insatiable curiosity, eager to learn and excited over even the one-worded answers Yuri is prone to giving and just generally being anything but calm.

By the time Yuri adds the last ingredient to the potion, he’s heard about Victor’s time as a ranch hand in the 1960s, his ranked list of the five best jam flavors, the poodle who had been his best friend for the past 14 years, and his short-lived career as an underwear model.

The potion is, unsurprisingly, ruined.

“So,” Yuri says, “I think I should probably keep brewing this one by myself.”

 

 

The first time Victor assisted Yuri with brewing Euphoria, it was awkward, just as Yuri had predicted it would be. Victor tried too hard to be funny, and Yuri wasn’t able to try at all, clearly too conscious of the fact that they still hardly knew each other. Yuri just withdrew further as Victor tried to fake a familiarity they simply didn’t have with each other. That potion was ruined too.

Victor made them celebrate the failed potion with a Karaoke Night in the bar, in which Victor pulled nearly every staff member into doing a duet with him; once they were all karaoked out and no more patrons were vying for a go, Victor proceeded to sing his way through a rather large chunk of the Dashboard Confessional discography before Yuri dosed him with Sandman’s Sauce.

Victor wasn’t too pleased with him the following morning.

But he still eventually roped Yuri into spending the day at the mall with him. There was an impromptu fashion show from Victor followed by a half-hearted one from Yuri, a stop in the candy shop where they both walked out with far more sacks of sweets than any one being needed, a long interlude of Victor’s face pressed up to the glass as he wept over all the puppies in the pet store while Yuri listed all the reasons they could not have a dog in a bar, and some surprisingly vicious competition in the arcade.

Things went better the second time.

Now, after Victor’s clumped down the staircase to join Yuri in the brewing room, he greets Yuri by tickling his sides until he’s wheezing, “Victor—okay—oh my god—Victor, stop,” between wild peals of laughter. Grinning triumphantly, Victor moves off to one of the tables where two bowls sit waiting for him. He’s pretty familiar with this potion by now, having brewed it successfully with Yuri a few times.

Victor starts crushing cherries and tangerines in the smaller of the two bowls. “Wouldn’t this be better accomplished using a juicer?” he asks Yuri, unable to completely hide the whine in his tone. This part takes _forever_.

“For getting the juice, yes,” Yuri says. “For making this potion as potent as possible, no.” Victor hears two distinct plops into the cauldron full of beer; Yuri must have just levitated the yellow jasper and yellow apatite in. “Most kitchen gadgets are made with steel, which is too modern of a metal to be very magically useful.” He approaches the table, pointing at the knife Victor is using to squash the fruit and extract as much juice as he can. “Copper channels energy really well. It focuses and enhances your magic—”

“I thought that’s what the runes were for?” Victor says, holding the knife up until he’s nearly cross-eyed from trying to inspect the carvings on the blade.

“They are,” Yuri says. “But the metal they’re carved on matters. It makes them stronger.” As Victor nods and sets back to work, Yuri smiles wryly. “Plus, magic just works better in general the more work you put into it yourself.” Victor pulls a face at that before pouring the juice he’s managed to gather into the larger bowl. He pulls another face at realizing just how little juice he’s gotten so far. The large bowl needs to be filled, and right now, there’s just a thin layer of juice covering the bottom of the bowl. He’s going to need to pulverize a _lot_ more cherries and tangerines.

“I’m not feeling very euphoric right now, Yuri,” Victor sulks.

Yuri sighs dramatically from the next table over, where he’s plucking crocus petals and dropping them into a miniature cauldron. “Phichit got kicked out of the movie theater when we went to see _Titanic_ ,” he says, and Victor can already hear the amusement seeping into his voice. “He kept calling out diving scores as people jumped off the ship.”

Victor hasn’t quite finished laughing yet when he says, “My friend Christophe called me to say he hated being high. He said he kept thinking he could hear footsteps and it was annoying him. I asked if he was walking around, and he went absolutely silent for about 30 seconds before whispering, ‘Oh, shit.’”

By the time the potion is finished—a perfect golden color that smells like sweet fruit and sunny childhood memories—they’re both past the point of speech, just falling into helpless giggles every time their eyes meet. 

 

 

Yuri is sitting cross-legged on one of the tables, fingers twisting nervously around each other, when Victor peeks his head through the doorway.

“Yuri!” Victor calls happily, bouncing into the room and letting the door fall shut behind him. “Are you ready? Because I have a great story to start us off with, I was just talking to Christophe and—”

“We’re not brewing Euphoria today,” Yuri says. “We have enough of it now. You’ve made great progress with that brew, Victor.”

“Oh,” Victor blinks, “well, thank you.” He looks slightly more perturbed than pleased, though. Yuri can tell why; he knows he looks and sounds strange right now. “So what are we making today?”

It’s not an easy thing to ask of Victor. Yuri sucks in a breath, steeling himself. “We’ll be brewing Sorrow.”

Victor frowns. “Sorrow?”

Yuri nods. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly. “It’s—well, not fun, obviously, and I don’t want—”

“Why?” Victor interrupts. He looks up when Yuri falls silent. “Why would you make something like this?” There’s a hint of something disturbed and distraught in his tone. “Why give it to people?"

Ah. Yuri hadn’t expected this to be the thing that would upset Victor—probably, he supposes, based on how they’d met. He’d assumed Victor would understand. “Sometimes people just need to grieve. Crying it out, facing that emotion . . . it can be healing.” He gives Victor a pointed look.

Victor looks away. “I wasn’t doing that to heal. I think I was just trying to hurt myself. Isn’t that really all it is when you force yourself to feel sad? Isn’t drinking this just self-destructive?”

“For some people, yes,” Yuri admits. “But it can be a catharsis for others. Sometimes . . . before a person can really move on and heal, they just need to feel the weight of their sadness. Maybe they can’t face it on their own, or just need help processing it before they can move past it. Some people feel like if they just let it all out at once, they can move on faster.” Yuri meets Victor’s gaze, relieved that, while Victor doesn’t look like he fully understands, at least he doesn’t seem so upset anymore. Yuri offers him a small smile. “Everyone deals with grief differently. And this brew helps a lot of people. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t make it.”

Yuri stands from the table, brushing off his clothes as he moves to the shelves to begin gathering ingredients. “There’s a man who comes here once a year, every year, on the anniversary of his wife’s death for this brew. He says he can’t bear to think of the day it will hurt any less. For him, feeling the weight of his grief is soothing. It helps him feel close to her, like he hasn’t forgotten her and doesn’t love her any less.” Yuri sets a few jars on the table and gives a slight shrug. “Some might call it self-destructive. But he only comes on that one day, cries for a little while, and then he goes on with his life. I can’t see the harm in that.”

“I,” Victor starts, but stops, mouth creasing in a pensive frown. “I understand, and I don’t.”

Yuri smiles at that. “Sadness is a part of life, Victor. Sometimes, you just need to feel it.”

Victor sighs wearily at that. “I suppose.” He watches quietly for a while as Yuri paces back and forth between the table and the shelves, pulling down small crates and large bottles and a spool of fine silver thread. He seems to get antsier the longer the silence goes on. When Yuri finally opens the chest to retrieve the stones, the signal that it’s time to start brewing, Victor heaves a heavier sigh, runs a hand through his hair, and speaks. “I don’t really let myself feel my sadness. I just—I run away from it, paste a fake smile over it and pretend everything’s fine until it more or less is. I don’t know why anyone would want to feel it, much less force themselves to.” He crosses his arms and slumps against the table. “And I don’t know if I’ll be able to brew this potion.”

“Are you willing to try?” Yuri asks quietly.

He appreciates that Victor takes a moment to seriously think about it. “Yes,” Victor finally says.

“Good,” Yuri says. He passes Victor two jars: one full of snowdrops, and one full of bluebells. “Then you’ll know.”

 

 

Yuri is shutting him out.

Victor doesn’t know why, but he is. It’s been almost two weeks now since Yuri’s let him into the brewing room, always avoiding Victor’s gaze when he asks what they’ll be brewing next and when, muttering a hasty, “I don’t know,” before leaving the room so quickly it’s almost as if he teleported away.

And it’s not just the brewing room Victor’s found himself shut out of. Yuri’s been avoiding him altogether, turning down every invitation Victor extends to go see a movie or attend a yoga class or go for a walk in the park. He even skipped out on their long-standing Tuesday and Thursday morning coffee shop dates.

It unsettles Victor because he’d thought—he’d thought—

 _Enough_ , Victor resolutely avows, and promptly stomps off towards the cellar.

He very graciously gives a single warning knock on the door before bursting in.

Yuri turns quickly, blanching when he sees Victor storming into the room. And then his eyes narrow, meeting Victor’s fire with fire. “What the hell, Victor,” Yuri spits out. “I told you not to—”

“No, you don’t get to ‘what the hell’ me,” Victor thunders. “That’s what I was going to say to you. Honestly, Yuri, what the _hell?_ ”

Yuri crosses his arms and looks away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters.

“Don’t—”

“Stop,” Yuri says. He looks and sounds completely expressionless when he adds, “I don’t have time for this. I have work to do. You should go.”

The fire abruptly goes out of Victor. He’s never been one for staying angry, especially when his anger just washes up uselessly on a shore of apathy. “Do you not want me to be your apprentice anymore?” he says quietly. “Do you want me to leave?”

“What?” Yuri says, sounding genuinely shocked at the notion. “No, of course not.”

Victor laughs bitterly. “ _Of course not?_ Yuri, you’ve been acting like you can’t even stand to be in the same room as me for weeks. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be a useful apprentice to you if my presence is so repellent.”

“No, no, that’s not it, I—” Yuri covers his face with his hands, breathing in and out deeply several times before letting them fall back to his sides. “I just—I was stressing out about this potion. It has nothing to do with you, Victor. I’m—I’m sorry I made you think that.”

Victor approaches slowly, hoping Yuri is being truthful with him. “If you’re stressed out about the potion,” he says, “then let me help you. I’m sure I could, if you’d let me.”

Yuri’s face does an interesting thing where it turns sheet-white before flushing a deep red in under ten seconds. “No,” he says in an intriguingly high-pitched voice. “That—no—that won’t be necessary, it’s better if I do this one on my own.”

Victor taps a finger against his lips, trying not to frown. “Have you been trying to make the same potion this whole time? And haven’t succeeded even once in nearly two weeks?”

“So I’m not perfect, _sorry_ ,” Yuri says in a rush, and Victor’s a little alarmed by how hysterical he sounds. “It’s just—I can’t just—so I’ve been a little, I don’t know, _off_ , it happens, it’s not a big deal.”

“I thought the upside to having an apprentice is that I could help you out when you feel off,” Victor says.

“Not with this,” Yuri mutters. “You can’t—I’m not asking you to help me with this.”

“No, you never did ask,” Victor says ruefully. “But I’m offering my help anyway. In fact, I _insist_ on helping. What’s the potion?”

Yuri says nothing, staring resolutely at the floor.

Victor takes another step forward. “What’s the potion, Yuri?” he repeats, gently. He can’t imagine what it could be that would have Yuri this strung out and it admittedly makes him nervous, but Yuri wouldn’t serve anything in his pub that could be any worse than Sorrow, would he? At any rate, Yuri clearly thinks he needs to make this but can’t do it on his own. So he won’t have to. “Come on, Yuri,” Victor prods as Yuri stays stubbornly silent.

It seems to take a great effort of will for Yuri to speak. “Aphrodisia,” he whispers.

Victor blinks. “Aphrodisia?” he repeats blankly.

Yuri nods, the flush returning in full force.

Oh. That— _oh_. “Aphrodisia,” Victor says again. “You mean like—”

“ _Yes_ , it’s exactly what it sounds like,” Yuri says hastily.

There’s no holding back the suggestive smirk. “And you’re having trouble brewing it by yourself,” Victor says teasingly. “Oh my, how very troublesome. How can one man, all on his own, possibly get himself in an amorous mood?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Yuri says hotly, clearly embarrassed.

Victor sighs dramatically, stepping up to Yuri and throwing an arm around his shoulder. “I suppose I’ll just have to help you find your Eros,” he says. “It’s what any good apprentice would do.”

Yuri abruptly shoves him away, stalking across the room until he’s white-knuckling the edge of a table. “No,” he says.

All right, in retrospect, teasing him was probably not the way to go about this. It just felt easier to hide behind jokes and smiles and not have to really acknowledge—this. “So I am that repellent,” Victor says, trying for a light tone. He doesn’t really succeed.

“Victor—” Yuri bites off whatever he was going to say.

Victor wishes he’d turn around and look at him. If Yuri won’t say it, his face will. But maybe Yuri knows that. Maybe he knows that he can’t hide his repulsion and is just trying to save Victor’s feelings.

But if that’s really how he feels, Victor needs to hear it, one way or another.

“Do you not want me, Yuri? At all?” Victor asks. The quiet desperation in his voice almost makes him cringe. “Because I—I thought—"

Yuri looks very, very still. “I . . . “

“Have I been too obvious?” Victor says into the silence Yuri trails into. “Is that why you’re pushing me away?”

“What?” Yuri finally turns around, looking supremely startled. “Obvious about what?”

Victor feels his face heat and forces out a wry smile. “That I want you. But you don’t want me, do you?”

Yuri stares unblinkingly at Victor for what feels like the longest minute in all of time. “I keep failing at this potion,” he finally says, “because I can’t stop thinking about you and feeling guilty for thinking about you because I thought you didn’t want me.”

“Ah,” is all Victor’s brain can come up with in response to that, which immediately makes Victor want to throttle himself because _really_ , he could’ve done better than that if he’d just given himself a moment. And then he does take that moment and adds, “Well, let me clear that up for you,” before crossing the room and pressing his mouth to Yuri’s.

Yuri makes a small noise of surprise and tenses up for the barest of seconds before he kisses back, arms circling Victor’s neck and holding Victor in place when Victor makes a half-hearted attempt to pull away. Yuri’s mouth opening to his has Victor pushing him back against the edge of the table, the only thought penetrating the haze of his mind _he wants me, he wants me, he wants me_. He just keeps kissing Yuri, and kissing him, and kissing him, and would probably have kept on kissing him until they both collapsed from exhaustion or dehydration or something if Yuri didn’t break off with a little moan that makes all of Victor’s systems shut down.

“Oh, wow,” Yuri breathes, and Victor deliriously thinks, _Same_.

When the ability for speech kicks back in, Victor grins down at Yuri and says, “So, let’s make some Aphrodisia, shall we?”

“Can’t,” Yuri says, pushing Victor back slightly. “We don’t have time now. It’s nearly happy hour.” He peeks shyly up at Victor over the rim of his glasses. “But . . . tomorrow . . . “

“Yes,” Victor promptly replies. He swoops in for one more quick, hard kiss. “To be continued,” he says with a wink, and saunters out of the room.

 

 

Yuri has made a very dire mistake.

It seemed like a smart decision at the time—and, all right, he panicked slightly. More than slightly. Yuri had been so _sure_ that Victor wasn’t interested in him like that, and then suddenly they were making out against the table where he’s plucked out pygmy owl claws and shaved the entire corpse of a black bear.

 _THAT WAS A TERRIBLE PLACE FOR A FIRST KISS_ , he thinks hysterically, almost ripping out chunks of his hair in distress.

And this is why it was a mistake to stop Victor: sure, he really had needed to get to the bar for happy hour, and sure, he was probably too incoherent for potion brewing at the time anyway, but now he’s had too much time to _think_. And from the horror he feels over where he’d kissed Victor to the anxious anticipation over what will happen when Victor walks through that door in, oh, about two minutes, Yuri isn’t sure he’s any more coherent now than he was yesterday.

Really, what _is_ he supposed to do when Victor walks through the door? It seemed so easy yesterday, and now there’s—pressure, and expectation, and the fact that they basically scheduled a time to get horny, oh _god_.

The door opens, and Victor walks through it, and before he can consult with his brain, Yuri blurts out, “This is already a disaster.”

Victor actually looks relieved at that. “Oh, good, it’s not just me,” he says.

“What,” Yuri says blankly.

Victor laughs a little as he walks towards Yuri, shrugging at the no-doubt bewildered expression on Yuri’s face. “This is awkward, right?” he says. “It’s awkward. I’ve been nervous about this all day.”

And just like that, a sizeable portion of Yuri’s anxiety evaporates. “Yeah,” he says.

A slow smile spreads on Victor’s face as he comes to a stop an arm span from Yuri. “But now,” he says in a low voice, “being here, with you right there . . . “

Yuri knows where he’s going with this. He feels it too. “It doesn’t feel so awkward now,” Yuri says.

Victor’s smile brightens at that.

“I guess,” Yuri says, licking his lips because, hey, the nerves aren’t completely gone, “we should get started.”

“What’s first, Master?” Victor says with a wink.

Yuri points to a cabinet along the wall. “Candles.”

Victor doesn’t need to know that the candles aren’t exactly required. But they help to set the mood, and Yuri’s got dozens of vanilla-scented ones and vanilla _does_ have magical properties that are perfectly appropriate for this brew.

They set them up in clumps around the room, and when they’ve all been lit, Yuri sketches a spell in the air and the other lights in the room dim.

“Perfect,” Victor says.

Yuri hums in agreement as he walks to his chest of stones. “Red jasper,” he says, “Confidence. Passion. Promotes sexual compatibility.” Yuri’s sure he flushes a little at that and turns quickly for the next stone. “Red garnet. Sensuality. Fire. Intense feelings.”

Victor grins at him. “Perfect,” he repeats.

Yuri shakes his head, pretending at exasperation. He sends the stones into the cauldron and then leans back against the table, not quite sure how to proceed.

“I have a question,” Victor says.

Somewhat relieved by the interruption before he could think himself in knots, Yuri gestures for Victor to go ahead.

“This seems a little . . . “ Victor hesitates before tentatively continuing, “risky to serve at a bar.”

“It is,” Yuri agrees. “But I take a lot of precautions. My pub is safe, I promise.” Victor only looks mostly reassured, so with a little laugh Yuri adds, “Honestly, I almost never actually serve it at the bar, and I definitely won’t serve it to anyone who seems to be alone. I mostly just send it home with couples that request a growler of it.”

Victor smiles and suddenly his fingertips are trailing down Yuri’s cheek, coming to rest under his chin. “Clever witch,” Victor says fondly.

Yuri licks his lips again. “I think,” he says, “we should start.” He immediately catches Victor’s wrist when he starts to pull away. Yuri knows he was going to the table he usually works at, but this time, for this potion . . . well, it’ll work better if they’re. Closer.

Victor’s wrist relaxes in Yuri’s grip. “Of course,” Victor says. “I’m yours to command.”

“Wait here,” Yuri says, and briskly strides over to the shelves. He’d already set out most of the things they’d need before Victor arrived, but Yuri senses that once they, ah, really get going with the potion, he’s not going to feel so inclined to have to walk back across the room. _You’re welcome, Future Yuri_ , Yuri thinks as he plucks several things off the shelves.

“Get the mortar and pestle,” Yuri says as he returns to the table. “I’ll need you to grind up three cinnamon sticks.” As he hands the cinnamon sticks to Victor one by one, Yuri quietly adds, “Not too finely. Use a gentle touch.” And then he lightly strokes his hand down Victor’s arm before turning to his own tasks.

The ylang ylang needs to be wound around the maca root, and the hibiscus petals need to be plucked while he sings a song with no words. As the last note fades from his mouth, Yuri feels Victor’s hand on his hip as he leans in. “You have such a lovely voice,” Victor murmurs in his ear. “When you sing, I can’t do anything but listen.” And he presses a kiss to Yuri’s temple.

 _When you touch me, I can’t do anything but hope you don’t stop_ , Yuri nearly blurts out.

“The cinnamon,” Yuri forces out instead. “Get the—wait, I need to—” Yuri drags over a small jar and a bottle of red wine, the latter of which Victor takes from him.

“Allow me,” Victor says, and gets to work on the cork.

Yuri plunks down a miniature cauldron and counts out nine cubeb berries into it. He takes the bottle from Victor once it’s opened and pours out half the wine, then instructs Victor to add in the cinnamon.

“You should pour some of that for us too,” Victor says.

Yuri’s already setting two goblets onto the table. Conjuring isn’t something he does frequently, especially not in this room since, as he’d told Victor once, the potions come out much stronger when you put in the work and don’t rely on magical shortcuts. But the goblets have nothing to do with the potion; he just wants to share a drink with Victor. And, all right, maybe he wanted to show off a little.

“Thank you,” Victor murmurs when Yuri hands him a goblet. He takes a sip, makes a pleased sound, and cheerfully remarks, “Excellent.”

“Is it?” Yuri asks before taking a sip from his own goblet. “I suppose. I don’t know much about wine.”

“Ah, my dear brew master, I have a confession to make,” Victor says. “Beer doesn’t really do much for me. I am wholly a wine connoisseur.”

Yuri swallows down more wine. “What else does it for you?” he asks in a low tone, and god, that sounded so stupid out loud, but he’s _trying_.

Victor smiles as he takes Yuri’s goblet and places both of them on the table. “This,” he says, and draws Yuri into a kiss.

They both shift in towards each other, aligning hips and thighs and shoulders, and Yuri helplessly presses into the warmth of Victor’s body. Victor’s arm winds around Yuri’s waist and Yuri sighs into the kiss as Victor’s mouth opens to his because god _yes_ this is all he’s been thinking about for the past 24 hours, getting back to exactly this.

Yuri twists his fingers into Victor’s hair, pushing up on his toes to deepen the kiss. He’s lost to it entirely until Victor pulls back, pressing lightly down on Yuri’s shoulders with a rough-edged laugh as Yuri’s mouth tries to follow him.

There’s pink dusted across Victor’s cheekbones, and Yuri’s sharply pleased with the thought, _That’s because of me_.

“We do have a potion to brew,” Victor says. He looks amused, but Yuri can hear from his tone of voice that he’s entirely irritated by that fact.

“Right,” Yuri says. He turns back towards the table, tugging and practically manhandling Victor until he’s standing right behind him. Victor laughs lowly and places his hands on Yuri’s hips, and Yuri gives himself a quick but thorough berating about needing to _focus, dammit_. “Good,” he says, not sure if he’s saying it to himself or Victor. He tacks on, “Stay right there,” and reaches for an apple to slice open.

“Yes, Master,” Victor says, moving in closer, and Yuri almost drops the knife.

Victor dips his head, lips brushing against Yuri’s neck, right at his—throbbing, thundering—pulse point. “Has Phichit ever helped you brew this one before?”

Yuri exhales slowly, a little too caught up in the heat of Victor against his back and the hypnotic murmur in his ear to process the question right away. “No.”

“What did you do then?” Victor asks as his fingers ghost under Yuri’s shirt, tracing his hipbones with a barely-there touch that makes Yuri’s skin ache with desperation for more. “Tell me what you did,” he presses a petal-soft kiss over the pulse point, “in this room,” another, under Yuri’s ear, “all by yourself,” and another, where the collar of Yuri’s oversized sweater clings precariously to his shoulder.

Yuri feels daring as he presses back against Victor, slotting his spine against Victor’s breastbone. “I think you can imagine it.”

“Oh,” Victor breathes, fingers clenching briefly on Yuri’s hips, holding Yuri tightly against him, then trailing a whisper of a touch up Yuri’s sides, “I can.”

Yuri collects the apple seeds with trembling fingers and flicks them into the air, sending them flitting into the cauldron. He picks up an apple slice and holds it up for Victor to bite into, heating up at the pleased _mmm_ he makes when he does. Yuri pops the other half of the slice into his mouth, which is a mistake: he nearly chokes on it as Victor nuzzles against the nape of his neck, breathing hotly against Yuri’s skin every time one of them moves their hips.

“God,” Victor moans into the crook of Yuri’s shoulder. “Is this potion almost done? Please tell me it’s almost done. Because there are things I need to do to you, things that you will like but yell at me for later because they’ll distract you and then the potion will be ruined.”

Yuri turns in Victor’s arms, pulling him forward until they’re flush against one another. “It’ll keep,” he says, and arches up to slot his mouth against Victor’s, catching their soft sighs between them.

 

 

It’s in the way the walls of Victor’s rooms faded to a clean white, the pleasing accents of sky blues and sea greens that appeared in the form of throw pillows and blankets and gauzy curtains, the dozen small succulents that now delightfully clutter up the windowsill.

It’s in the way Phichit asked for his help in the kitchens, and Victor was exactly as terrified by the ordeal as Yuri had hinted he would be, but it felt significant, like a rite of passage.

It’s in the way Victor, tipsy and too impatient to wait for someone else to serve him, filled up his glass from a randomly chosen beer tap, only to discover it was his favorite Sangiovese—which perplexed Yuri because, he said, the taproom never served wine. But it’s been over a week, and the taproom still pours out Sangiovese every time Victor’s at the tap.

It’s in the way Yuri looks at him, like Victor is made of constellations and Yuri just wants to spend the whole night stargazing.

It’s in the comfort and familiarity that blankets everything and keeps Victor warm.

Victor decides.

 

 

It’s open mic night at The Keep, and everyone in the taproom is currently captivated by the woman on stage playing covers of The Beatles songs on a harp that sounds like birdsong.

Perfect.

Victor slips behind Yuri and circles his fingers around his wrist. “Come with me,” he murmurs in Yuri’s ear.

He doesn’t miss the shiver that seems to run through Yuri before he turns and follows Victor to the cellar. Victor keeps his hand on Yuri’s wrist until they’re in the brewing room, door closed between them and the rest of the world.

“I am needed at the bar,” Yuri says dryly. Victor glances back at him, and can’t help the lecherous grin that unfurls in answer to the amusement on Yuri’s face. Clearly, neither of them have forgotten the last few visits to this room.

“This won’t take long,” Victor says, and at Yuri’s raised eyebrows, he adds, “I just wanted to _talk_ to you about something.”

The amusement melts to curiosity and maybe something else. “Is everything all right, Victor?” Yuri says.

 _I hope so_. “I think,” Victor says carefully, “it’s time that I told you why I was crying the night we met.”

Yuri frowns slightly, looking concerned. “You don’t have to,” he says.

“Oh, I do,” Victor says with a wry little laugh. “Otherwise you won’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

 _What you’ve done for me. What you mean to me. What I hope I mean to you_. The words stick in his throat. Victor turns from Yuri to mindlessly look over the shelves, trailing his fingertips over ceramic pots and stoppered glass vials. “I’ve lived in the human world for over a century,” he says instead. “In all that time, I enjoyed myself here, but I never quite felt like I’d found my place. I was . . . hovering on the fringes, on the other side of the glass looking in and telling myself at least it was more entertaining than returning to Magh Meall.” He puts his hands in his pockets, afraid he’ll get too caught up in his words and accidentally knock a bottle of oil to the floor. “The first time I ever felt like I really belonged anywhere,” he says, “was when I first stepped onto an ice rink.”

Victor turns and leans back against the wall, facing Yuri but still not looking him in the eye. “I loved skating. There’d never been anything like it in Magh Meall, but even if I could somehow replicate it there, it’d never be the same. There’s something about the risk of it, the relentless pursuit of perfection. It could never be the same in a land with no pain or hardship.” He gives Yuri a brief smile. “That’s what I was famous for. Figure skating. I’ve been competing for the past few years, and they were the happiest years of my life.”

“But because of the fame,” Yuri says slowly, “you had to give it up. You . . . “ Yuri looks at Victor with heartbreak in his eyes. “Oh, Victor.”

“Yes,” Victor says. He has to close his eyes to the fresh wave of anguish being reflected in Yuri’s eyes. “So I came here looking for the hawthorn tree. It felt like I’d just been given a sign that I don’t really belong here. Everyone—all the fae in this world, at least—they were all so angry with me, and since I knew I couldn’t return to the ice again any time soon, going back to the Otherworld seemed for the best.” He sighs and looks up. “I made it as far as the bar top before I lost my nerve. I figured I’d get some liquid courage and then do what needed to be done. And then you mentioned reliving happy memories, and I couldn’t resist.”

Victor’s silent for too long, and Yuri asks the question that Victor’s been trying to answer, the question he knows Yuri’s had since the night they’d met. “Why were you crying, Victor?” Yuri whispers.

Victor hadn’t noticed, but Yuri had been slowly moving in while he spoke. With mere inches separating them now, Yuri lifts a hand to Victor’s cheek, thumb rubbing below Victor’s eye like he’s wiping away a tear that Victor hasn’t cried.

Victor expels a shaky breath. “Because I thought it was the last time I’d ever feel like that,” he says. “I didn’t think I could ever be so happy again. I didn’t think I’d ever feel so loved again.”

The warmth and tenderness in Yuri’s eyes nearly stops Victor’s heart. “Victor . . . “

“Meeting you,” Victor says, a tentative, hope-bright smile on his lips, “seems to have proven me wrong.”

Yuri’s eyes gleam. “Yes,” he says, and pulls Victor into a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

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